


To Know I'm Alive

by XILVerify



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Blood and Injury, Disabled Character, Gen, Historical Hetalia, In honor of Poland's independence day i figured i might as well crosspost this, Major Character Injury, basically Feliks going "I lived bitch" for 2k words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:33:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27506155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XILVerify/pseuds/XILVerify
Summary: October 24, 1795. The Third Partition of Poland is about to be signed, effectively wiping the nation from the face of the map. But Feliks is definitely not going to take the loss of his land, people, culture and name sitting down…(Originally posted July 19, 2012)
Relationships: America & Poland (Hetalia), Hungary & Poland (Hetalia) (mentioned)
Kudos: 20





	To Know I'm Alive

There were many things mud was good for, Poland reflected. Farming. Building. Playing. Flinging at people who got on your nerves. However, being knocked face first into a large puddle of the stuff to slowly suffocate was not one of those good things. Kinda sucked, actually.  
  


He lifted his head slightly out of the mud and gratefully sucked in a choking mouthful of air, blood, and grit, but air was air, and he wasn't complaining, really. He tried reaching up to wipe the muck out of his eyes, but a boot firmly smashing into his back right between his shoulder blades and pinning him flat on the street quickly discouraged that course of action. A disapproving cluck sounded from above him.  
  


"When will you learn?" Russia. Very pleased with himself, judging from the tone of voice. "You're beaten. In a few minutes, you will no longer even officially _exist_. Why choose to disappear in such an indecent manner?" Poland growled deep in his throat and attempted to push himself up onto his hands and knees, but Russia was far too strong and Poland too weak for him to make much progress. He settled for turning his head to one side so his face was only half in mud instead of buried completely. He kind of liked being able to breathe. Though, admittedly, he didn't know if he'd be doing that for much longer. The sludge obscured his vision entirely, but he could still hear pretty well.  
  


"You have to admit, though, it's fitting." Prussia. God, Poland would so love to knock the sneer out of that obnoxious voice. If he could just manage to wiggle free for about five seconds-  
  


"Please." Austria. Annoyed and disgusted by the sound of it. Good. Poland hoped the stuck-up twat was covered in enough mud to plaster the whole of St. Petersburg. He hadn't exactly been able to get a good look after he had tripped him up and made a break for it. "Nothing about this is 'fitting,' Gilbert. I have mud all over my face!"  
  


"Welcome to the club," Poland croaked. "And you let me up, I’ll totally get you an initiation badge and everything." He was studiously ignored.  
  


"It suits you," Prussia retorted. "Honestly, you should have seen the look on your face when he nailed you smack in the mouth. Priceless!" The nation dissolved into round of harsh cackling, and Poland grinned at the memory himself. Yup, if he was going to go out, might as well go out with a bang. Sitting still and watching while his ( _his,_ dammit!) land and people were divvied up like a cake at a party was something he just wasn't going to take sitting down. He was more than likely going to end up dead when this was all over anyway. Might as well make things as annoying for his conquerors as he could while he still had the chance.  
  


"Be that as it may," Russia interjected calmly. "There is still the question of what to do with little Feliks here." The heel of his boot ground between his shoulder blades, and Poland grimaced.  
  


"It's _Poland_ ," he snarled. Again, he was ignored. This was starting to get irritating.  
  


"Tie him up and dump him in the basement until the treaty's signed," Prussia suggested, sounding bored. "As much as I like some excitement around here, the little pain in the ass is too much trouble to leave unsupervised. And I, for one, don't feel like babysitting him. Do you?"  
  


"So get a couple guards to do it," Austria snapped. "Where were they when he decided to give them the slip, anyway? And why are _we_ the ones who had to chase him down? Look at my coat!"  
  


"I'd rather not as much as possible, thanks."  
  


" _You_ don't look any better, I'll have you know."  
  


"May I suggest making it so he _can't_ run away again?" Russia suggested mildly. A shiver ran down Poland's back. Trust Russia to think of the solution that would probably involve a lot of pain…  
  


"I'm listening." Why was it not surprising that Prussia sounded disturbingly enthusiastic about this?  
  


"Hey, don't I get a say in this?" Poland spoke up. The crack in his voice was certainly _not_ due to fear, no sir. He was just a little thirsty, that's all.  
  


"Shut up, Poland," Austria snapped. "You brought this on yourself; you've forfeited your right to have an opinion on anything." Well, at least they weren't ignoring him now. "Although… must you stoop to such things? They'd probably charge us if we got blood all over the upholstery back at negotiations, anyway. I've already spent enough money on this trip."   
  


"Well, we could just break a leg or something," Prussia proposed. "I could hold him while you go get your pipe, Russia."  
  


"I was thinking," Russia said slowly, "that we take his eyes. After all, you cannot run away if you are not able see where you're going, yes?" The air caught in Poland's throat. A large hand gripped his chin and pulled his head partway out of the cold mud. "And besides." Russia's breath smelled of pickled fish and vodka. "It is only fair. Have you ever heard of a young man by the name of Mikhail Erikeev? No? I thought not. He was a simple infantry soldier in the Russian army. Not his first choice of profession, of course; he actually wanted to be a musician, but," Russia sighed, "such is life. He had a mother and three unmarried sisters, all of whom depended on him for their livelihood. Do you know what happened to him? He was shot in the face with shrapnel during the Battle of Chełm, and died in a field hospital a few hours later, blinded and in pain so great that he was _glad_ to die. And he was only one of thousands of Russian, Austrian, and Prussian men to lose their lives putting down your little insurrection."  
  


Angry anguish had filled Russia's voice; the hand gripping Poland's jaw tightened, and he winced in spite of himself. "You could have stayed content with your people on your land, learned to behave like a good little protectorate like Lithuania, but no, you had to go and _rebel_. You are more trouble than you are worth, Feliks Łukasiewicz, and the world will be better off without you. We will _not_ allow something like this to happen again. Even if it means erasing the memory of your very existence from the world, we will do so."  
  


"Good luck with that," Poland ground out, feeling as if his jaw would soon crack from the strain. "Nice, passionate speech, by the way. Didja practice it beforehand?" Something struck his cheek hard and his head splashed back into the mud, striking the paving stones with enough force to momentarily daze him.  
  


"Maybe we should do something about that tongue of his, too," Prussia joked.  
  


"It has crossed my mind," Russia said grimly. "But I think his eyes will suffice. The most powerful country in Europe, reduced to a helpless, little blind boy without a people, without a land, without a language, and without a future. It's fitting, don't you think?"  
  


"Very poetic," Austria said. Poland could almost hear the eyeroll. "I'll leave you three to it, then."  
  


"Awww, you're not going to stay, Roddy?" Prussia pouted.  
  


"As much as I love putting people's eyes out," Austria deadpanned, "I'll have to decline. It's getting chilly, and I need to change clothes and bathe."  
  


"Pansy," muttered Prussia.  
  


"Look, you uncouth cretin," Austria snapped. "Just because I-" He stopped short just as Poland felt the nation part of him _shift_ , and the sensation was enough to take his breath away. His heart thudded strangely, and the invisible bonds that intuitively linked him to his land suddenly snapped, sending shockwaves reverberating throughout his being and leaving him feeling irrevocably empty, lost, intangible, and adrift, like he had somehow been cut off from everything around him. The heartbeat in his chest seized, faltered, and for a moment, Feliks thought he might die right then and there. But then he felt his people. _His_ people. Still his, no matter what pen and paper and the words of human rulers said. They still considered themselves Polish, still believed in him and themselves, and as long as enough of them did, he suddenly knew with perfect clarity that he would not die.   
  


The other three had felt the transference of power as well, it seemed. "It is done." Russia sounded immensely gratified. "Well, then-" Dear God, it should _not_ be legal to sound that chipper when preparing to maim someone, "-shall we get on with this?"  
  
  


* * *

"Hey." An elbow nudged Feliks in the ribs, and he started, coming out of his memories with a jolt. "You okay, Feliks? You sort of left me behind for a moment, there."  
  


"Sorry, Alfred," he apologized to the young nation. "I was… just thinking." Yeah, if remembering what had been pretty much the shittiest day of his life thus far counted as "just thinking." Feliks very deliberately did _not_ reach up and tug at the bandage wrapped around his head, though his hand twitched at the suppressed habit.  
  


"'Bout what?" the personification of the United States asked innocently. Feliks was saved from having to answer by a loud smack from a hand violently meeting forehead, signifying that America had just answered his own question. "Argh, Feliks, I'm-"  
  


"If you apologize, Alfred, I will slap you," Feliks threatened, moving sideways on the sun-warmed stone wall he sat upon to bump shoulders with America good-naturedly. "Don't think I won't."  
  


"But-"  
  


"Seriously, it's fine."  
  


"No, no it's not!" protested the boy, and Feliks was surprised at the depth of emotion in his young friend's voice. "It's unfair and cruel what happened to you, and I wish…" his voice faltered momentarily. "I wish there was something more I could do to help. I mean, I know this is how it's been done for centuries among our kind and all - and I _don't_ need another lecture on that, thanks very much – but that doesn't mean I have to _like_ it." The pout in his voice was plainly audible.  
  


"Alfred, you've already done more than enough for me and mine already," Feliks replied, one corner of his mouth quirking in a soft smile. "Believe me just having a place to stay for a couple days after weeks in that hellhole of a boat sounds like heaven to me." He gave a theatrical shudder. Adding his extreme dislike for boats to his newfound blindness had been a recipe for extreme misery during the long trip across the Atlantic Ocean, and he had been profoundly grateful when one of his people had helped him ashore after the ship carrying the immigrants and their nation had docked, and he felt firm ground under his feet again a few hours before.  
  


"Well!" America perked up a little. "Happy to help, then. Though I don't know why you wanted to come all the way out to my neck of the woods when it sounds like you could have just as easily stayed with Hungary, or one of your other friends in Europe, especially given how horribly seasick you get. Not that I'm not pleased to see you or anything," he hastened to amend himself, "it's just, well..." Feliks could hear him gesticulating in wordless frustration before he finally gave up with a loud huff.  
  


"Europe isn't really my home anymore, Alfred," Feliks explained with a sigh, sliding off the tall stone wall to land lightly on his feet in the long, dry grass rustling gently against his legs in the sea breeze. "My home is with my people now, wherever they might be, and while there are still more Poles in Europe than anywhere else, I couldn't… I just had to get away for awhile." He sighed again, sadly, tiredly, feeling every day of his centuries of age instead of the teenager he appeared to be. "I'm sorry. I'm not making much sense, I know."  
  


"Nah, I understand." He both heard and felt America jump off the wall to land with a soft, reverberating thud in the snow beside him. "Bad memories are a total pain, huh?"  
  


Feliks found himself smirking. "Totally. And besides, as much as I love Elizaveta, I think I would have driven her mad if I had knocked over that suit of armor she insists on keeping in the foyer one more time. So I thought I'd come over and bug you for a while instead," he finished teasingly, taking his walking stick from America with a grateful nod as the young nation pressed it into his hand. His fingers curled around the smooth wood, and he sighed quietly. This whole blindness thing was really starting to worry him, and it was incredibly annoying as well. It had been nearly four months since the Third Partition of Poland and his subsequent "lesson," and his eyes had only just begun to start healing. It was almost as if his body had just stopped trying to repair itself. He'd probably eventually recover… probably ( _hopefully_ ), but it would take him a lot longer than usual.  
  


"Oh, har har," America returned in a huff, laughter evident in his tone. "Speaking of which, how long do you think you'll be staying?" He allowed Feliks to put his hand on his shoulder and started walking at a pace slow enough for the blind personification to keep up comfortably. "If not with me, than here, in my country?"  
  


"Until I feel like I can go back h-" He caught and corrected himself with a wince, "to Europe. And after that?" He shrugged, almost tripping himself on an ice-slick cobblestone before righting himself. "I'll go wherever my people take me, I suppose." Stripped of his land and his status as a nation, they were the only things sustaining his life force, connecting him to this world, and until the day that he finally ceased to exist, they would still be his. But if he had to share them in the meantime, well, he could certainly live with that.  
  


Listening to America rhapsodize about hot cider and popcorn and complain about the cold, Feliks smiled to himself and started to whistle a random folk tune under his breath. Yeah. He could certainly live with that.

* * *

_So don't tell me if I'm dying_   
_Cause I don't wanna know_   
_If I can't see the sun_   
_Maybe I should go_   
_Don't wake me cause I'm dreaming_   
_Of angels on the moon_   
_Where everyone you know_   
_Never leaves too soon_

**_\- “Angels On the Moon” by Thriving Ivory_ **

**Author's Note:**

> \- The Third Partition of Poland took place on October 24, 1795, in the city of St. Petersburg, and ended the existence of Poland as a sovereign state for 123 years until they finally regained their independence on November 11, 1918.
> 
> \- I tried my hardest not to make Russia, Prussia, and Austria seem, if not reasonable in their actions here, at least understandable. They'd been at war with Poland off and on for decades, and despite everything, he just wouldn't shut up and accept their rule over his lands. I think back then those three were just sick and tired of his and his people’s inane desire to just keep on fighting and costing them time, money, and thousands of deaths to keep putting them back in their place, so they finally decided, like Russia said in the fic, to that the country was more trouble than it was worth and up and dissolved it. The leaders of those three countries even made a secret pact with each other to permanently erase the existence of Poland, even down to the country’s name. As for what they did to Feliks himself, I think it was likely perfectly acceptable back then to treat a subservient colony or nation however their ruling nation wanted, and if they misbehaved, well, they were asking for whatever smack on the head they got.
> 
> \- I've always liked to imagine that America and Poland are on really good terms with each other. Not bffl or anything, but they've always personally gotten along very well, and given the fact that thousands of Poles immigrated to the United States in the 100+ years Poland was partitioned, eventually forming the largest Polish community in the world outside of Poland itself, I've always thought that Feliks would likely feel more at home in the U.S. than anywhere else in the world besides his own country. It makes me very sad that their friendship tag has almost no fics to its name and hardly anyone writes or draws them interacting in any capacity ever. 
> 
> \- While the Poles eventually became very vocal about regaining their freedom and quickly developed a great sense of patriotism even when they officially had no country, my thinking was that when the latter half of the fic takes place, they were all still somewhat recovering from the uprising and dissolving of their country, which is why Feliks is still blind and somewhat melancholy here. He'll eventually recover, though, it'll just take him longer than it usually would.


End file.
